A Little Night Music
by livengoo
Summary: Lots of bad things lurk in the dark. Not all of them are supernatural.


A Little Night Music

All characters, including the car, belong to those guys who put Supernatural on the air. I just borrowed 'em. Interpretation is all fic.

Warnings? Yeah, a few. Adults themes. Words you don't want your pre-teen saying, though I'm sure any pre-teen knows 'em. No nudity, no romance, no brother/brother, and no deaths.

* * *

Sam Winchester shut his eyes and leaned his face out the window. At the speed the Impala was going, even the desert wind felt cool. It roared in his ears and almost drowned out the Led Zeppelin thundering from the speakers. That didn't stop him feeling it in his bones though, guitar riffs humming in his ribs. He sighed and slumped back into the car where the noise could get him.

He sighed again. It might have made a noise but no one would ever know under all that metal. Sam narrowed his eyes and shot an evil look at his brother. Dean was sprawled loose-limbed at the wheel. He looked well-rested. No he didn't. He looked HAPPY. He look . . . Sam floundered for the word. Perky. He wore a smug, completely obnoxious smile. He simply oozed an aura of 'just got laid.' Sam growled and reached out to punch the eject button on the tape deck.

"Hey!" Dean lunged and caught the tape that shot out of the slot.

"Nice reflexes." Sam gave him a completely insincere smile.

"This," Dean shook his cassette, "is a classic. Treat it with respect. And put it back in the deck."

Sam snatched the tape he was waving, eyed it, and pretended to toss it out the window. "Nope."

"Hey!"

"Look, like magic . . ." Sam reached out and pretended to pull the tape out of Dean's ear in what would never be mistaken for slight of hand.

"Must have a lot of storage space in there."

"So clever," the answer was sneered. "So put the tape back in."

"Come on, Dean, you can afford to be generous."

Hazel eyes cut sideways and Dean put on a poor impersonation of wounded dignity. "I have no idea what you're trying to say."

Sam sighed. "You got some."

Dean's grin almost exposed his back teeth. "Yeah. Good times."

"So . . ." Sam gestured at the dashboard and Dean's smile dropped.

Hazel eyes narrowed and he waved his hand in a 'go on then,' circle.

Sam smiled sweetly. "Let me pick the music."

Dean scowled. "That is not in the rules."

"Come on. Driver got laid. Let me pick the music for the day."

Dean pulled himself upright in the seat and raised his chin, resuming his air of dignity. "It is not my fault you can't score."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I wasn't trying to score. And that's not the point."

"You are NOT saying that I have to TRY are you?"

"Dean. Focus."

"Why should getting lucky mean I have to put up with your crappy taste in music?"

He had him. Sam smothered a grin. "It doesn't. It does mean you're in such a good mood that listening to what I want to hear won't spoil it, so be a mensch and let me have my way."

Dean shuddered. "If you promise to never, ever call me a mensch again, it's a deal. One time!" He held up a finger. "ONCE!"

"Deal." Sam grinned and reached for the radio knob. Spun it. Hit something that would have been at home in an elevator and paused long enough to get a look at Dean's expression then smothered his own smirk and moved on. Talk talk talk ads country . . . he cringed and twitched. "Where'd you put the holy water?"

"I think we need the shotgun for that." Dean's voice held a note of apprehension. "I don't think wailing country babes die for just holy water."

Sam reached out a nervous hand. "That can't be good for the radio."

His brother snickered as he moved on. More talk - what did these people TALK about all day? The unctuous tones of what could only be an NPR announcer slid out of the speakers but Sam knew better than to try that. Country country wait, there . . . brassy horns. Drums.

Trombones.

Swing. He grinned and settled back as Tommy Dorsey rolled out of the

speakers.

Dean frowned but let it go unchallenged. Sam looked back out at the rolling, baked land and the thin shimmering strip of blacktop, pointing towards mountains as brown as cocoa mix. Tapping his fingers on his knee and leaning into the wind from the open windows, letting the heat and light just wash through him all together.

Tommy Dorsey closed and something Sam thought was Benny Goodman started up. It'd been a long time since he'd heard that. He glanced over and frowned. Dean was sitting back, way back in his seat. Almost like he was pushing back, away . . . he suddenly leaned past the wheel and slapped off the radio.

"Hey!" Sam reached for the radio. "You said -"

"Leave it." Dean's face was pale, and the muscles at his jaw flickered, no trace of the happy glow left. "Just leave it off."

Sam blinked. Looked at the radio, his brother, the radio. "That was one of dad's favorites, wasn't it?"

Dean shrugged. Then nodded. "I guess."

Sam swallowed, trying to remember the last time he'd heard Goodman's music; faint memories of golden trombones on a dark evening. He'd been lying in bed listening. He'd liked the thumping beat. He reached over and turned it back on. Dean started to reach for the radio and Sam glared at him. "What is your problem?"

"I don't have a problem. Do we really need to listen to this crap? It attracts zombies you know. And you get yourself a hundred zombies rotting and dancing to Benny Goodman . . ." Dean shuddered and made exaggerated gagging noises.

"Why did he stop listening to it?"

Dean smirked. "I started driving."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I am so not buying that Dad let you pick the music."

"Driver -"

"Picks." Sam cut him off. "And Dad never gave the wheel up in his life.

Nice diversion."

"Dad knows good stuff when he hears it."

"Sort of my point."

Dean snorted. Glared at him. "Do you REALLY want to listen to that shit?"

Sam blinked, watching him. Looked away after a moment. The Impala's chrome reflected painfully bright. He blinked again, frowned. The light in the hall had been burned out. That was why the hall was so dark. And Dad had liked the house kind of dark - said lights too bright spoiled your vision when you needed it most. He remembered the music. He remembered the drums.

The beat had been wrong.

"Dean, what happened when he stopped?"

His brother gestured towards the tape deck. "If I wanted talk I'd be listening to talk."

Sam scowled and lightly slapped at the back of Dean's head. "Trying to ask a serious question."

"Trying to DRIVE here."

"Just answer the question."

"I don't know what the question WAS, Sam. it'd help if you made sense.

Four years of college, going to law school and you can't ask a question?"

Sam gritted his teeth then breathed through his nose. He pointedly did not look at Dean directly.

"It was the summer you were fourteen. What happened?"

Dean blinked. He could see it from the corner of his eye. Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, drumming the beat of a song Sam couldn't hear. And he reached for the tapes. Sam grabbed his wrist. "If you put that on I won't be able to hear myself think, let alone hear what you say."

"I dunno, Sammy. Listening to myself think usually makes me want to turn it up louder."

"And if I had to listen to you think I probably would too, but you still didn't answer the question."

Dean glared at him. "Do not cross examine me, Sam."

"You got the name right at least," gloated Sam. "And if I ever cross examine you, you'll know about it."

Dean heaved a noisy sigh. "Can you be more specific? Give me the what, why maybe? When?"

"Where was Evansville, before you get to that. And when was. . . "Sam frowned. "I. . . I remember you yelling at him. And then how quiet it got."

It had gotten quiet in the car too. As soon as Sam said Evansville it was like Dean wasn't even breathing anymore but just turned into a part of the car, still and silent in the driver's seat. His fingers weren't tapping out a beat anymore, but stayed motionless on the wheel and his knuckles were white.

"Dean?" Sam was confused. And scared. "What happened?"

"To the music?" His voice was flat.

"Something happened with you and Dad, Dean." He paused, really thinking of that. Felt his way through the ideas slowly. "There was one night . . . I remember he was angry and drunk one night, but . . . what happened?"

"Nothing happened in Evansville, Sam. Nothing." Dean's voice was tight and crisp, words bitten off.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Yeah. You didn't come out of your room for a week. What happened? He get possessed or something?"

He'd said it in jest. Dean didn't laugh. The muscles in his forearms flexed, quick flicker of tendon under the skin. Sam heard his teeth click together and then he shook his head. "You been watching too many stupid movies, Sam. You need to stick to the classics. They make sense."

Sam snorted. Shook his head. "You had a fight or something. I remember that. It woke me up. Sam rubbed his face, remembered the sound of a heavy thump and a slap. It had made him open his door, peek out into the hall. Dad had been holding Dean against the wall, wrists pinned. Sam twitched, looked out at hot, rolling desert land under a brutal sun and frowned.

"I thought you were fighting."

"You and me are gonna be fighting. This is driving time, Sammy. Eyes on the road. Hands on the wheel." The words were light but was a humming tension under the surface. Sam turned away from the land to look at his brother, seeing muscles tight across shoulders and up to a tense jaw. Dean's eyes were squinted but the noon sun was above them and it was bright, yeah, but not that bright.

Sam reached a hesitant hand out to touch his shoulder and Dean flinched. "Look, what are the rules?"

"Are you okay?"

"I am fine."

"Bullshit."

Dean's lips flickered up in a brief, humorless smile. "Such language."

"Bull. Shit." Sam let his hand rest on the back of the bench seat, close but not touching. "I haven't thought about that in years. For a long time I thought it was maybe the only time I saw you two fight."

Dean was sinking down a little, sliding down in his seat and frowning.

"Sam. Drop it."

Sam frowned and shook his head. "You weren't fighting. I didn't know it then. But . . ." He suddenly stopped and blinked hard. Blinked again. Then reached out and this time he ignored it when Dean flinched, grabbing his wrist he leaned forward to stare into his eyes. "Dean?"

"This is NOT the time for this!"

"This sure as hell is as good as any time for this!" Sam always knew he had a temper, went from zero to swinging in ten seconds flat, but it'd been a long time and suddenly he was angry, really deeply angry, and no one there to hit. His voice was as cold as the ball of rage in his gut was hot. "Pull over."

Dean shot him a quick look and gave a little shake of his head. "Out here? No."

"Pull OVER Dean, right now."

"Look around us, College Boy. Desert. Personally, I want a cold - HEY!"

Sam squeezed his wrist hard and hissed, "Over. Now."

Dean flinched but did it. Pulled to the side and spun in his seat to scowl at his brother. "Okay. We're over. Fuck what I want to do but we're over and why the hell ca. . . " Sam heard him trail off as he yanked open the passenger door and nearly threw himself out of the car.

Sam marched up and down the length of the Impala, kicking rocks savagely and ignoring Dean for a minute; ignoring Dean sitting in the car at least. In his memory, he saw a much younger face, smooth and fine. Too young to shave, freckles just starting to fade into the pale, even skin he'd have as an adult.

"Sam?" Dean's voice sounded worried now. It was deeper than it had been then. Sam retreated to the rear of the car and leaned up against the trunk, breathing hard. Remembering. Dad's hands had been dark and looked huge, one big hand wrapped around Dean's wrists and holding them over his head. Dean should have broken that hold. Sam remembered his voice, breathless and small, asking his dad to let go instead.

Sam crossed his arms tight over his stomach. He heard the driver's door open - it had creaked for years. Heard boots crunch in dry gravel and sand. The sun was blasting hot across his shoulders and the back of his head but his skin had gone icy and his fingers felt almost numb.

Sweat was rolling down his sides as he looked up at Dean. His brother's face was pale and worried, eyes very wide and pupils very small in the brilliant light.

His eyes had been wide and his pupils had been huge and dark in the dim hall, lit only by the light filtering back from the living room. Dad's hands . . . one had been big, wrapped around wrists that weren't yet the size of a full grown man's. The other had followed the line of cheekbone, then down along the jaw. Sam shuddered. "He said you looked like Mom."

If Dean had been pale, he was transparent now. He reached out one hand to the fender and never seemed to feel the heat. Maybe he felt as cold as Sam did. He had none of his usual grace or easy movement as he staggered a step to lean his weight on the car. Sam couldn't take his eyes off his brother. "He said you had her eyes and . . . Dean? What am I remembering?"

Dean had bitten down on his lips, teeth no whiter than his skin. He turned his back to Sam and leaned there, looking out. "Shit that you should forget."

Sam squinched up his eyes, and stared. Remembered the dull, rhythmic thud against the wall, like the distant beat of the old fashioned music

Dad liked. But lower. And the wall shook a little so it made the picture rattle on the wall. Sam didn't want to think these thoughts, remember what he remembered. Dean was hunching in on himself over there, pulling his shoulders in and dropping his head. Maybe he was staring at the ground. Maybe his eyes were shut. He'd been panting and made a strange little distressed noise that night, and their dad had grunted and panted too, loud and steady.

Sam didn't remember skin other than hands, faces. He remembered denim and sweatshirt, thank god didn't remember skin because what he did remember was bad enough. What he remembered had his late breakfast lurching out of his stomach and burning up to spew on the ground.

He choked and puked and coughed for a couple minutes, terribly relieved to have something so simple and easy to distract him.

He could see Dean's boots coming to stand beside him. Feel a hesitant hand on the back of his neck. Dean's hand felt icy against hot skin. He went away for a minute, came back and a damp cloth slid over the back of Sam's neck, a bottle of water thrust into view. Even the thought of the word 'thrust' made him heave again.

He finally staggered back, away from the vile puddle he'd left on the rocky dirt. Dean moved with him. Sam hoped the tears on his face were just from throwing up when he looked up to see Dean, silhouetted dark against the midday sun. His brother crouched down to study his face, worried. "Damn, that was nasty."

Sam couldn't help the hiccupping laugh that rose up in his throat. He took a big gulp of water, swished and spat it out. "Truer words."

"You aren't gonna puke in my car, are you?"

Sam stared at him, then reached out and grabbed the back of his neck, holding him in place. Dean tensed and the concern and amusement both slid away to an expressionless mask. Sam could feel the way he swallowed, the tension in the back of Dean's neck as he gave him a little shake. "Dean, was he possessed?"

Dean dropped onto his ass rather than sat. The movement didn't take him far enough away to dislodge Sam's grip. Sam could feel the way he twisted a little, testing the hold, testing where to move to break it, but he let Sam keep him there. "It was a long time ago."

Sam gave him another quick shake. "Don't do that, Dean. Don't try to make it go away or . . . whatever it is you're trying to do." The back of Sam's eyes was burning worse than the back of his throat. "Talk to me."

Dean did break the hold then. Surged back up to his feet and backed away. "Why? What's the point?"

"I need to know!"

"WHY?" Dean's voice was a hoarse, ugly shout. "It never happened to you. It never will. What's the fucking point of this, Sam? Just let it go!"

"Oh my god." Sam felt his own eyes go wide, staring at his brother.

Felt a tremor run down his body. And couldn't keep looking at Dean. He shut his eyes. "How many times."

Booted feet scuffed. Crunched as he heard them pace up and down.

Rounded with another crunch of stone and baked dirt. "This isn't any of your business."

He could look at Dean now. Damn right he could. Sam was on his feet and towering over his brother before he knew he'd moved. Dean stepped back, stumbled and had to catch himself as he backed into the shallow ditch at the side of the road. Sam followed him, steady on his feet where Dean had been oddly graceless, awkward. He reached out and snagged the thin jersey of Dean's t-shirt and balled it up in his fist. Dean's hand wrapped around his wrist, fingers finding pressure points but not pressing, not yet. Sam shook him. "You idiot. God DAMN it Dean! You're my brother!"

Dean's lips curved in an uneasy, unconvincing smile. "Took you this long to figure that out?"

"Do not JOKE about this! What did he do to you?"

Dean froze, very still, very pale. And raised his chin. "Drop it,

Sam. Drop it now."

Sam blinked hard, vision blurring. He sniffed and his nose was full of snot and it was hard to breathe. "Dean," He heard his own voice crack and hated it. "Why?"

Dean hadn't broken free yet. Just let Sam keep that grip on his shirt.

His voice was very calm. "Because I let him."

"You were fourteen." Sam couldn't keep the grief out of his voice.

"You were a kid, Dean. There was no 'let.'"

"There was." Dean sounded soft, uncertain, but determined. "Sammy, it

. . . he stopped. He didn't . . ."

"When?" Sam let go of the shirt and Dean staggered a little. Sam caught his shoulders. Felt the small tremors that were running through the other man's frame, like shivering that couldn't stop. He tightened his grip. "You were a kid. You are my brother. It IS my business."

"Why?" Dean's laugh was harsh. "What'll you do? Beat him up? Have to find him first. And I don't think he even remembers it, Sam. It wasn't that big a deal."

Sam stared at him. Then yanked him in close and wrapped him up tight in his arms, because if he didn't hug him he was going to hit him and he really didn't want to punch out Dean's lights. Not then. Dean tensed and tried to pull away and Sam just wrapped his long, long arms around him and pulled him in so close and tight he could feel Dean's heart beat like it was his own. "Shut up, Dean. Just for a minute."

And for a minute he did. Silent and breathing harshly against Sam's shoulder, hands poised to try to shove him away as soon as Sam let him.

Sam knew he was lucky he hadn't caught a knee in the family jewels for god's sake, but he wasn't letting go. Couldn't let go. Not then. Sam caught a shaky breath. "Dean. Just shut up and listen. Okay? It was a big deal."

He could feel Dean open his mouth and he squeezed tight until his brother made a tiny squeaking noise and then Sam let him gasp in a breath of air. "If that happened to any other fourteen year old kid you'd be apeshit. You know you would. If it happened to me you'd have killed somebody."

"S'different." The voice against his shoulder was tiny and faint.

Sam grunted. "I'll squeeze you again."

"Try it."

Sam sighed and did. Sometimes the extra inches and pounds were damn handy. Dean tried to hold his breath but Sam hadn't just slacked off for four years and the muscle mass mattered. He let him get another breath and chuckled. "Are you going to shut up and just breathe? I can keep this up all day."

"Can not!" Sam squeezed him again. "'kay! 'kay!" came another squeak.

He didn't dare let Dean go now. If he let him get any distance and air he'd be toast. As it was, Sam made sure he kept his hip slightly turned against his brother to fend off a painful knee. "I'll have to remember this trick."

Dean made a huffing noise but Sam figured that was allowed. He sighed and felt the brief laughter die in his chest. Then Reaching up, pulled Dean's head tight against his shoulder. "You'd never let it happen to anyone else. And it shouldn't have happened to you, either." Dean's head shook just a little and Sam sighed and responded to the wordless comment, "No it's not different either."

Another huffing, exasperated sigh almost made him laugh despite himself. But he still needed . . . or maybe just wanted to know. He carefully shifted his grip to Dean's upper arms and pushed him back to see his brother's exasperated, annoyed expression. "Was he possessed?"

And he saw it then. An honest answer. Not in words but in the brief flicker of hope, and resignation, and acceptance in Dean's eyes. Sam sniffed back against the stinging that was back in his own eyes. Shook his head. "Dean . . . did he . . ?"

"What?" Sam flickered his eyes down, back up to Dean's eyes. A moment of confusion, then shock and all the resignation was gone. Dean curled a lip in an expression of outright disgust and pure pissed-offedness.

"Sam. You read too damn many . . . I don't KNOW what you read but that is perverse! Just . . EWW!"

That did it. Sam snickered. Couldn't help it. Dean's face lit in a faint smile for an instant then morphed back to theatrical disgust and dismay. "You are just one sick puppy, Sam. What do they TEACH you in college these days?"

"Lots of stuff." He looked back up and could damn near see Dean building the walls, pulling back to safety and he lashed out and got him by the back of the neck again, and it was only the fact it was him and Dean knew it that kept him from harm. He could see it in the way Dean's weight suddenly shifted to the balls of his feet and his hands went loose at his sides, and ready. But he didn't strike out and he didn't back away. Not yet. Sam held on tight. "Has he ever touched you again? I want the truth."

"Not your business, little brother."

"My brother, my business." Sam kept staring into Dean's eyes until he knew that Dean saw he meant it. And the older man sighed, relaxed, let go of the readiness he'd held. And shook his head. "No. And we're never talking about this again. You hear me, Sam? Never."

Sam took a deep, deep breath and let go of his brother. Backed away a step. "I will never talk with you about this again."

Dean stared at him with narrowed eyes and Sam knew he hadn't missed it.

Then he snorted. "Fuckin' lawyer."

Sam forced a smile onto his lips. "Not yet."

Dean shook himself like a dog shaking off fleas. Shook his body, shook out his hands all the way to his fingertips and then went still, head tilted and watching Sam. Really watching him. "You okay?"

Sam looked back at him closely, still feeling the chill in his gut that the sun couldn't melt, but feeling it fade just a little under Dean's warm concern. "Thought we weren't talking about this anymore?"

"Oh, we so are NOT! You . . . " Dean rolled his eyes. "We're going.

And we're getting beer. Or I'm getting beer. And I think I'm getting scotch. And drunk."

"I hear you." Sam turned and walked back towards the car, hearing Dean behind him, then stopped to watch his brother. Dean's step was light and brisk as he rounded the car, no awkwardness now as he slid behind the wheel. Sam sighed. He still had questions to ask. But not of

Dean.

He looked up towards the sun just a moment, let it dazzle him and then he slid into the shadows inside the car.


End file.
